


here the whole time (if you could see)

by thankyouforexisting



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Adrien and Mari are NOT kind and amazing in this, Angst, Casual Sex, Character Death, F/F, Friends With Benefits, Fuckbuddies, Harsh Language, Hurt/Comfort, Light Smut, Other, Pining, Suicidal Thoughts, except without the friends, sin - Freeform, they're older, trigger warning: suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-06-04 21:56:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6676849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thankyouforexisting/pseuds/thankyouforexisting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oh, sod off. Chat's not who I'm in love with, you know that."</p>
<p>"True," Chloé draws out, because she's nothing if not proud, "But weren’t there so many rumours about you two about six years ago?"</p>
<p>Exactly six years ago. Chloé is a stalker and she's not ashamed of it.</p>
<p>"I'm pretty sure Chat's gay and he's only overcompensating," Ladybug says thoughtfully, stroking her chin, "I saw him wander around Adrien Agreste's window often enough."</p>
<p>Chloé chokes, sitting up on the couch and clutching at her stomach. She feels her shirt unbutton slightly, her skin shivering at the exposure,  "Oh my god, Adrien, that sly dog. And all that time I thought he simply didn't like me. Can't believe we're both gay."</p>
<p>Ladybug's eyes shine, staring at her chest, "Yes, quite."<br/>// Chloé is alone, and she's in love, and Marinette Dupain-Cheng can't stand the sight of her. Ladybug, however.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. guilty feeling got no rythmn

**Author's Note:**

> i am ladychlo trash ssshhh  
> Title from "You Belong With Me" by taylor swift

_ Now I'm losing, I'm losing _

_ My mind yeah, I'm losing _

_ My mind is missing, presumed lost _

_ Don't want you back no matter what _

_ - _ Goodtime girl, Scouting for girls

* * *

The door to Chloé's apartment clicks shut behind her, barely making a sound. Which is just as it should be, considering it's probably more expensive than most of a normal Parisian's furniture. 

 

She wouldn't really know, though. Chloé doesn't do her own  _ shopping _ .

 

She's humming a catchy pop song under her breath, fumbling with her keys, her fingers stiff with the cold that the chilly night air brings, throat raw, and winces when she jabs herself in the palm with them by accident, making a dent in her perfect skin. Grimacing, she leaves them gently on the tall wooden table near the entrance, fingers lingering as she moves towards the kitchen.

 

Chloé takes a deep breath and sighs, straightening her black leather jacket and running her fingers through her long golden hair. Even though she knows it won’t help, she tries to massage her back, applying pressures to the places where tension builds up; between her shoulderblades, the back of her neck, her sides. 

 

When Chloé was fifteen, and an idiot (she still considers herself an idiot, but one with more taste), her five-storey mansion had been bursting with noise, full of busy, mousy secretaries muttering and carrying heavy folders;  tall members of her security team following her dutifully as she chatted mindlessly about her latest risky endeavor, smirking and terribly proud. Sabrina had trailed after her, like a lost puppy, hanging onto her every word and sighing dreamily at the weak compliments and encouragements she exchanged for her loyalty.  And, of course, there had always been her father, steady and reassuring, warm voice soothing her worries and relaxing her shoulders without any effort at all.

 

Now, the only one to greet her is a deafening silence, occupying every inch of the lousy one-bedroom apartment she owns. It almost seems to mock her, the absence of any life.

 

She drops her designer's bag on the kitchen table, blowing away the annoying strands of hair that keep messing up her vision, and pushes her glasses up absentmindedly, glancing at the clock.

 

She smiles, maybe for the first time today. 

 

Chloé stretches lazily, grinning madly and glancing at the mirror to make sure she still looks _ gorgeous _ (as usual, she can't help but add smugly in her mind). She struts to her pretty pink velvet couch, and makes a show out of sitting down, moving her legs slowly, curling her hair with her fingers and shoving her head back, exposing her neck as she rests her back on the soft cushions, arms spread out on either side of her, skirt riding up  _ just _ a little bit.

 

She breathes.

 

"You're ridiculous," grunts a familiar annoyed voice, but it’s strained, and Chloé smirks.

 

Ladybug is perched on her window still, clad in the glamorous but uncomfortable skinsuit she insists on wearing (even though Chloé's offered to take it off for her many times, to which she always receives a disbelieving raise of her eyebrows and a harmless shove onto the bed), and looking at her, legs crossed and holding her head up with her hands, as tantalizing as ever.

 

Chloé sometimes wonders how she could live up until her adulthood before she accepted she was a raging lesbo, with that girl consistently saving her and  _ touching  _ her, burning the feel of spandex into her mind and making every experience she had with a sex toy twenty million times more intense, sweaty and yet undeniably heroic as she gathered Chloé up in her arms, strong and confident. Her voice, like honey, “You’re gonna be okay.”

 

"You're early, today," Chloé comments, even though she does not mind, not even a little bit.

 

Ladybug sighs and stands up, unconsciously (or is it, really?) showing off her lean figure as she slides into the apartment, quietly shutting the window behind her and putting her hands on her hips, standing in Chloé's living room like she does this every  day.

 

God, how Chloé wishes this could happen every day.

 

"You don't seem too busy," Ladybug bites back, her eyes a frustratingly common (she has no idea how many hours she’s lost staring at stranger’s face, searching for  _ something _ that might give them away) and yet breathtaking blue, "I could leave, if I'm not wanted. I have better things to do, anyway."

 

"Better than me?" Chloé can't resist the obvious bait, and it makes Ladybug roll her eyes, which she's learnt is a sign of affection, "My, my, has that cat gotten lucky after all this time?"

 

The superhero glares at her, dragging her precious Lederagne metal chairs and slumping down on them, pocketing her yoyo, and crossing her legs, "Oh, sod off. Chat's not who I'm in love with, you know that."

 

Because Ladybug  _ is  _ in love. Because Ladybug isn't here because she loves Chloé, because she thinks Chloé's beautiful and kind and worth caring for, worth taking care of. Because Ladybug  _ uses _ her.

 

She isn't really sure  _ why _ Ladybug is here.

 

Chloé only knows she's terrified that one day she'll stop showing up, nonchalant and seductive, aloof and  _ perfect _ .

 

That one day, Mystery Boy (as she jokingly calls him in front of Ladybug, to make her push at her weakly) or That Undeserving Bastard (as she calls him inside her head, where nobody judges her and she can be as bitter as she wants)  will get his head out of his arse and love the living daylights out of the girl behind the mask.

 

"True," Chloé draws out, because she's nothing if not proud, "But weren’t there so many rumours about you two about six years ago?"

 

_ Exactly _ six years ago. Chloé is a stalker and she's not ashamed of it.

 

"I'm pretty sure Chat's gay and he's only overcompensating," Ladybug says thoughtfully, stroking her chin, "I saw him wander around Adrien Agreste's window often enough."

 

Chloé chokes, sitting up on the couch and clutching at her stomach. She feels her shirt unbutton slightly, her skin shivering at the exposure,  "Oh my  _ god _ , Adrien, that sly dog. And all that time I thought he simply didn't like me. Can't believe we're both gay."

 

Ladybug's eyes shine, staring at her chest, "Yes, quite."

 

She moves from the chair, calculated and predatory, swishing her hips and licking her lips. Her loose dark hair seems to be a thousand different colours under her lamp, changing from blue to purple to copper. Ladybug comes to rest against the couch, thighs touching Chloé's feet where she’s crouched on top of her, one hand on the the couch for support.

 

She's breathing hard already, and she's kind of embarrassed about how _ easy _ it is for the girl to turn her on until she's on fire, lust pulsing up her veins. She suddenly realizes that she's shaking, fisting her hands in precious velvet, fingernails digging into her palm.

 

Ladybug's finger gently, softly, moves up her legs, trailing a teasing path that only makes Chloé grit her teeth to keep from shouting at her to  _ get on with it, already. _ The digit slides downwards, making its way up to that hot, suffocating place in the middle of her hips, and slowly, pushes in.

 

It’s an  _ explosion _ .

 

...

 

Ladybug's gone the next morning, leaving behind the now-familiar scent of sugar and sex that seems to cover her bed for days, making her dizzy. The only thing she keeps of their nights togethers are blurry memories, the feel of the girl’s breath tickling her throat, a lovebite on her thigh, the ghost of her fingers inside of her. 

 

On her bedside table, there is always a ladybug.

 

...

 

Chloé becomes, in a turn of events that confuses everyone (precisely what she wanted) a journalist.

 

She's actually  _ good _ at it, too. She knows how to bully the truth out of someone, has memorized the wounds she has to rub salt on to get someone talking, sleeps with anyone receptive if their tongue loosens after a good hard ride, tracks down hermits like a pro, plays the ‘sweet child’ card as if she was an actress, eyes tearing up at her command, and then copies everything perfectly.

 

None of her teachers noticed her prodigious memory. Then again, she never really tried to make them notice.

 

People at work hate her, because she's successful, and being better than everyone else is doesn't come without its downsides, even if they are minimal. And the person who hates her the most is Césaire.

 

"Fuck you," the absurd reporter tells her with the glare she always wears around Chloé, and furiously drops her notes off at her desk, looking way too hot for someone as awful as her. Without waiting to see if Chloé even knows what they’re about, she storms off, huffing self-righteously.

 

"Good morning to you too," she replies dryly, even though Alya can't hear her, and puts her hair up in a ponytail, glancing down at the file. Apparently, she's stuck with the politics section this week, and the bratty Césaire has interviewed Paris's most recent mayor, Adrien Agreste.

 

Her lips curl up, even though the word mayor makes her heart twist and her breathing cut off for a second, like it always does. As expected, her childhood friend is naturally charming and devastatingly adorable in his answers to Césaire, who is actually polite and even _ funny _ when talking to other human beings, the ones that aren’t called Chloé Bourgeois.

 

She’s not surprised she got saddled with politics. She often does, because she practically grew up during a constant political campaign, photoshoots and interviews and ambassadors that just couldn’t  _ wait _ to meet the charming mayor, fake smiles plastered on their easily forgettable faces. Before, she used to dream about following in her father’s footsteps, being powerful and even richer, having subordinates who’d never betray her and singlehandedly directing Paris, hell, all of  _ France _ , in due time. 

 

Nowadays, she wriggles her butt in her uncomfortable desk chair, taking care so that her pencil mini skirt doesn’t move up, and settles in for a good four hours of work writing a two-page article, sipping her coffee tiredly. 

 

She’s not sure if she’ll go for the competent-but-charming or man-of-the-people approach with Adrien, who’s a PR manager’s wet dream come alive, what with the modelling, the activist background, the thousands of pictures holding this one baby in Somalia and helping carry people out of fire that one time, always looking flawless and competent, perfect in every single shot, never uttering a word out of place.

 

Staring at the picture she’s looking at now, one the photographer Césaire works with, a gangly guy who calls himself Nino and is usually absent (he’s oddly familiar, she thinks, and tries to think where she might have seen him before), headphones permanently resting on his shoulders, took, where Adrien’s laughing on the brown leather couch they have in town hall (she used to lounge around there, doing English homework and chewing gum while listening to the latest pop hit), hands at his side, green eyes twinkling, wearing a terribly flattering black suit, Chloé’s chest tightens.

 

She misses him, even now, more than she can say.  Since  Sabrina stormed off, years ago, crying and shouting at her, barely dressed and banging the door so loudly (her dog is  _ silent _ , she reassures herself. It never creaks in the night, it always keeps her apartment as sad and dead as she feels like) that her neighbours looked at her weirdly the next morning, she doesn’t really have anyone to call a friend. Rose calls her, from time to time, because Rose is disgustingly sweet and naïve, and thinks that Chloé can  _ change _ , if she gets the proper motivation to do it. It’s almost pathetic how diligently she waits for that number to show up at her screen, starved for any kind of interaction that doesn’t involve someone sighing exasperatedly at her and muttering “Unbelievable” under their breath.

 

What she has with Ladybug is different. Ladybug appears, every Tuesday, fingers her until she’s screaming and bucking her hips up, her whole body trembling with aftershocks after the  _ third _ time she’s come, takes whatever she seems to want from her visits (Chloé’s never known), and has disappeared in the morning, without saying a word, mouth stretched in a thin white line, not a drop of sweat on her suit. 

 

Chloé bites her lip and glances at her iPhone, wondering if she should try and talk to Adrien, but dismisses it as quickly as she’d thought about it. He’s probably too busy to care about one of the petty, outrageously rude and boring friends he’d had when he was a kid. He left his opinion about her pretty clear the last time they saw each other, right before he got into politics. 

 

Halfway through writing out the interview, revelling gleefully in making Césaire sound stiff and awkward, she stretches and looks around the office, blinking dazedly. Everyone is working, staring at their screens like their life is on the line, typing furiously and moaning when they glance at the clock.

 

Someone shouts, “Oh, come  _ on _ , Terrence,  _ vite _ , there’s an akuma!” and she huffs out a laugh, feeling her shoulders shake.

 

Marie calls out, “Oi, write that shit down!” and Florent groans, rubbing his eyes and throwing a pen at her, glaring when she manages to duck before it hits.

 

Every single time there’s an akuma, Terrence is in the toilet. Chloé honestly can’t believe that, three years after she joined the newspaper, _ Le Parisien _ , there has never been an occasion where it hasn’t occurred, almost like clockwork. Whenever the pudgy-cheeked camera boy goes into the restrooms, she’s pretty sure all of the Ladybug Team buries their head in their hands and prepare their stuff.

 

Coincidentally, Césaire is the head of the Ladybug team, so she storms back into the offices floor and barks out orders, quicker than anyone else, putting all of the bright-eyed die-hard superhero fans in their place as she leads them to the Ladyvan, their newspaper’s own Superhero mobile.

 

Chloé smirks as the ruckus quiets down, everyone reluctantly returning to work, and leaves her article where it is, saving quickly and standing up. Maybe she’ll refill her cup.

 

Fuck, denial is awful, and she knows it.

 

She just wants to catch a glance, a second of red-and-black, agile movements and terrifying falls from cultural landmarks that just keep getting destroyed, the flash of a satisfied grin. But she knows better, so she  _ doesn’t _ get close to the windows, even though a girl in the editing floor squeaks and bellows, “ _ Ladybug _ !”

 

“Don’t fucking do this,” the superhero had hissed at her, shoving her against the wall in a way that had nothing to do with playful foreplay, hard and rough and  _ hurting _ her, making her whimper, “Don’t you  _ dare _ get close to me while I’m saving Paris, okay? I don’t…” she’d swallowed hard, looking away, as if she couldn’t reconcile what she was doing with the kind, sweet idol her own newspaper had made her out to be, “I’m not a superhero, when I’m fucking you. So...don’t be my fuckbuddy when I’m a superhero.”

 

_ Fuckbuddy _ .

 

The word feels faint and fragile, harsh in a way that only casually said things can be. In a way that tells Chloé:  _ you don’t mean anything _ .

 

Chloé has never gotten close to an akuma attack after that or, at least, not voluntarily. Chat’s saved her dozens of times, always snarky and biting, but more welcoming than the girl had been. She’s pretty sure he knows about her and Ladybug, what with how much hate and resentment he conveys in a single look at her, always hasty to get her as far away from the action as possible, and  _ not _ to ensure her safety.

 

He always does, though. Chat is never nothing but steadfast, and Chloé is sure he will never hurt her. Well, not physically.

 

She raises her hands up to touch her forehead. Fuck, she’s got a headache.

 

…

 

Chloé’s on her way out of the building, frowning slightly and promising herself to make her assistant get her some ibuprofen, when she bumps into Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

 

She looks  _ fine _ , wide-eyed, lips full and cherry red, her hair put up in a casual bun, wearing white leggings and a light blue t-shirt. It happens, sometimes, that she sees her former rival.The baker-turned-fashion-icon likes to come and visit Alya, bring her pastries and beam at her whenever she gets good news, sharing with everyone.

 

Everyone except Chloé, that is.

 

“Hey,” Chloé mutters, because well, she’s not going to be the one who shamefully crawls away from the girl, “How’s it going? I saw your latest design. Loved the skirt.”

 

Marinette bites her lip, fingers curling into fists at her sides. She’s standing still, rooted to her spot, her dark hair wavy in the afternoon wind that the parisian spring never fails to bring. Her face is taut with tension.

 

“Thank you,” Marinette says, stiff and polite, looking like she’d rather eat a bug alive than talk to her for more than a second, “If you’ll excuse me…”

 

Chloé lets her pass, feeling the breath go out of her in one go. It’s been awhile since she’s thought so much about her collège years, and she had no desire to do so. 

 

Her apartment smells of dust, even though she rationally knows it gets cleaned daily ,by diligent ghosts that suck the only remains of her father she has, his bitter fortune.

 

…

 

Hawkmoth talks to her, sometimes.

 

Whenever she’s miserable, sobbing on her bed and curling into the smallest ball possible, clutching pictures of her dad in her hands and shaking like a little girl, he always comes, whispering soothing promises of the ability to bring him back, oh yes, if only she’d take the Miraculous…

 

_ Don’t bother _ , she wants to say, every time, because it’s no use,  _ I could never do that to her _ .

 

His voice is still hilarious, though, and she gets a thrill out of him getting pissed at him ‘cause she’s unakumable, so she allows it and calls on the small ladybug pin  _ she _ gave Chloé, warning her that there’s going to be an attack soon.

 

Ladybug never replies. The one time she hesitatingly tried for a video call, like she’s seen Chat do, the superhero skipped their Tuesday appointments for a month. So she never tries again.

 

…

 

Adrien calls her, which both shocks and terrifies her.

 

“Chloé,” his voice is curt, neutral, and she freezes at the sound of it, almost unable to believe this is happening, “I know we’ve had our...disagreements -”

 

“ _ Disagreements _ ?” she scoffs, before she can stop herself, “ _ That _ ’s one way to call it.”

 

He hasn’t even said  _ Hello _ .

The mayor tsks, “Chloé, I’m trying here,” she stays silent, because she’s  _ lonely _ , and even a friend who hates her is better than no friend at all, “Despite our differences...I’d like to ask you not to let that influence the interview I’ve been told you’re writing.”

 

Realization wakes her up like no alarm clock ever could, and she sighs, “Don’t worry, Adrikins. I’m not enough of a  _ jerk _ to let my feelings control me. I’m a professional, after all. I thought you were calling for...doesn’t matter.”

 

Adrien snorts, and it  _ hurts _ , “To  _ hang out _ with you, Chloé? I thought you were gay.”

 

She blushes, glances around her empty house as if someone is listening in on her, and bites back, “Well, someone told me you might be, too, asshole. Don’t fucking assume.”

 

The boy  _ chokes _ , “ _ Me _ ? Gay? I have a  _ girlfriend _ .”

 

“Mireille doesn’t count as your girlfriend,” Chloé dismisses, “She’s a political move, albeit an incredibly smart one. Kudos on that, Agreste.”

 

“I  _ love _ her, how c- there’s no point arguing with you about this,” he cuts himself off, “How can you teach a person like  _ you _ about love, when all you do is hurt people?”

 

She hangs up with trembling fingers, because she might be desperate, but she’d like to think she can keep a bit of her pride yet, at least.

 

On the news, they’re announcing heavy rainfall this week. Chloé can’t help but laugh, bitter and not amused in the slightest.

 

Paris, despite its neverending cruelty, seems to understand her perfectly.


	2. the story starts where the story falls apart with you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marinette pinches the bridge of her nose, her messy but still undeniably beautiful dark hair falling down her shoulders like a shimmering waterfall, “Is this going to take very long? I do run a business, after all.”
> 
> “Well, I want to do a good job, don’t I?” Chloé cocks her head, showing her teeth, “Wouldn’t want to rush perfection.”
> 
> Marinette looks away, fingers tightening on the inked quill she’d been writing with, “Yes. Of course. Will you…” she hesitates, “Are you going to record this?”
> 
> Chloé nods, taking out her phone and tapping the Recorder app swiftly, putting it on Marinette’s glass desk. The designer is tense, fists clenched, gritting her teeth, and she’s glad.
> 
> It’s much easier to catch onto a lie if the other person is nervous.
> 
> She clears her throat and starts asking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well  
> This was a long time coming, omg! I'm so sorry! This will pick up now that exams are over, even though school is still hell. THANKS SO MUCH FOR THE COMMENTS, YOU GUYS ARE AMAZING AND MY CHILDREN.  
> i bring u angst in reward  
> no sexytiemz in this chapter, i'm afraid  
> (chapter title from Dreaming Alone by Against the current)

_ Have you no idea that you're in deep? _

_ I dreamt about you nearly every night this week _

_ How many secrets can you keep? _

_ 'Cause there's this tune I found that makes me think of you somehow _

_ and I play it on repeat _

_ Until I fall asleep _

_ Spilling drinks on my settee _

 

_ (Do I wanna know) _

_ If this feeling flows both ways? _

_ (Sad to see you go) _

_ Was sort of hoping that you'd stay _

_ (Baby we both know) _

_ That the nights were mainly made for saying things that you can't say tomorrow day _

-"Do I Wanna Know?", Arctic Monkeys

* * *

 

Chloé’s never been one for irony, to be honest.

 

Irony (noun): a situation in which something which was intended to have a particular result has the opposite or a very different result.

 

Irony, like when the person she knows the most wears a mask, like when all the years she spent courting Adrien Agreste managed to make him  _ despise _ her, like when Chloé was so absolutely certain that no monster could ever get inside Town Hall, and,  in the end, the monster was in there with her, all along, cold fingers creeping down her back, soft whispers on her skin, making her shudder, the inaudible whisper of an empty bottle of pills on the bathroom counter, the smell of chemicals mixing in the air.

 

Irony, she smiles bitterly, lacing her boots properly and  _ pulling _ , is a bitch.

 

…

 

Chloé’s boss is a terrifying woman called Nathalie, tall and graceful and impossible to please.  She wears thick-rimmed, red glasses and her hair is always up, not one hair out of place, perfectly secured and glued to her scalp by some unseen force.

 

Nathalie likes heavy bondage and pain play, she remembers absently as she slowly shuts the door behind her, plastering on a disarming grin, making sure that she looks as unstable as always, instead of a little more. Having blackmail helps, she muses.

 

“Mademoiselle  Bourgeois,” Nathalie reads from the file she’s holding, sitting on her leather desk chair, back straight. She laces her fingers together and shoots a levelling stare at her, blue eyes ( _ but not like hers _ ), “I read your transcript of our latest mayor’s interview.”

 

_ I thought you were calling for...doesn’t matter. _

 

“Yes?” Chloé stands politely in front of the smooth, black desk, and doesn’t sigh when her boss doesn’t offer her a seat. It’s one of the things she learnt living with a powerful politician: if they’re standing up, then you’re in control. People who don’t sit unconsciously know they need permission to. And Chloé’s not about to burst Nathalie’s bubble of narcissism and self-importance, or, at least, not today. “Do you have any comment on it?”

 

Nathalie’s still looking at her, biting her lip softly, and she seems to be searching for something in her expression, scouring the hilltops and riversides of the arc of her nose, tracing invisible lines across the bow of her mouth, crawling under her eyelids. Chloé knows she used to work for Gabriel Agreste, perhaps developed a superficial fondness for Adrien (this woman’s not capable of anything else. Well, she smiles internally, that’s what they think about her, too), but she’s been ruthless in criticising the use of fabrics in the Agreste brand, tore the designer down and exposed illicit affairs and mysterious donations to his company without a name. 

 

“You’re good at capturing people,” her boss says, after a few minutes, and it doesn’t surprise Chloé one bit. Nathalie is simply too smart to actually voice her thoughts. “You’ll be doing a lot more of that, from now on.”

 

She closes the file she’s reading without looking at it again and takes another one out from one of the drawers beneath her desk, beige and blank, only a name scrawled in black marker, flawless handwriting,  _ Dupain-Cheng _ .

 

And Chloé thinks, a little hysterically, that she’s being punished.

 

“This new...fashion wonder,” Nathalie’s voice is loaded with contempt, as if she isn’t wearing one of Marinette’s two-piece suits herself, “is important.” She looks at Chloé, and both of them know what she isn’t saying.

 

That they can’t let another designer walk among parisians until they investigate every little figure in her bank account, until they run a thousand tests and sneak paparazzi into her company building and sniff out the dirt. Not after the Agreste destruction, or they’ll be an embarrassment.

 

She realizes, quite a bit surprised, that Nathalie knows that she’s a lot more intelligent than Chloé’s been pretending, and a warm feeling settles in the pit of her stomach. It’s nice, even if it’s still pathetic, that someone can strip away the lies and see her, however limited that vision may be.

 

“Interview her,” the woman instructs, and doesn’t give any more details.

 

It’s because, Chloé smirks, it’s not necessary.

 

…

 

“ _ You have reached the voicemail of Sabrina. I’m not here, sorry! Wait for the tone and leave a message.” _

 

_ \--- peeeeeeeep --- _

 

…

 

Césaire actually marches up to her desk when she hears the news, fuming, red-cheeked and glaring at her.

 

“How the  _ fuck _ did Sancoeur give Marinette to  _ you _ ?” she demands, hands on the light-coloured oaken wood that her desk is made of. Her nails are painted a vibrant purple. “It was  _ my _ interview, I knew it, she knew it, even  _ Nino _ knew it, so why would she make  _ you _ , frigid Queen extraordinaire, take  _ my _ interview?!”

 

Marie’s stopped typing, staring in horror at the furious reporter, brown eyes wide. She opens her mouth, possibly to defend her, (sweet,  _ really _ ) but Chloé speaks before she gets a chance to.

 

“Alya,” she drawls, crossing her arms over her chest and raising a perfectly plucked blond eyebrow, “Could it  _ possibly _ be that  _ Nathalie _ is worried you’ll screw up your interview because of, let’s call it your ‘emotional instability’?”

 

Césaire actually  _ growls _ , which, good for her, Chloé didn’t think she had it in her, and glowers at her, hissing, “I can’t  _ believe _ you’re a journalist,” before stomping away, almost shaking.

 

“Jesus,” Marie breathes, and looks at Chloé, alarmed, “Are you okay? That girl does  _ not _ like you. What did you  _ do _ to her?”

 

Of course. Because she  _ always _ does something.

 

Well, she  _ has _ , this time, but that doesn’t mean it’s the default!

 

“I became a better journalist,” she says, instead of  _ I made her life hell for years and then followed her so she could never, ever get rid of me _ , “And some people just  _ can’t _ accept that.”

 

Her colleague rolls her eyes and tsks, “C’mon, Chloé, be nice.”

 

“What for?” Chloé smiles, teeth sharp, clicking the blue company ballpoint pen, “So she can shout at me in a slightly politer way? No, thank you.”

 

There’s a Beethoven symphony playing in the background. Someone’s listening to it with earphones and put the volume way too high. Chloé feels every note resonating in her sternum, tickling her lungs and caressing the inside of her throat.

 

…

 

_ Sugar _ is probably the most ridiculous name for a brand in the history of a capitalism.

 

Then again, she admits to herself,  _ she _ ’s not the newly-made millionaire.

 

Chloé walks up to the receptionist, a tall young boy, about a few years younger than her, with jet black hair and startling grey eyes who’s playing Angry Birds on his phone, and  _ smiles _ , just on the side of flirty but still decent, “Hi, sorry. I have an appointment with Mademoiselle Dupain-Cheng?”

 

The boy flushes a bit, pocketing the phone and coughing to clear his throat, running his fingers through his hair before blinking, obviously not expecting Chloé, goddess of beauty and nail polish, to deign to speak to him. He looks down at a paper on the desk almost automatically, and says, “Um, name?”

 

“Right,” Chloé laughs, faking a little embarrassment and twirling her hair, letting her cleavage show as she leans in a little closer, “Chloé B ourgeois, right on time.” She pauses, deliberately trying to seem as if she’s recalling the time, even though she has an internal clock that works perfectly, “I think.” She gives him a self-deprecating smile.

 

The receptionist mumbles a bit, cheeks heating as he very pointedly does Not Look at her breasts, eyes flickering every few seconds to her top, “Um, yeah, go ahead. It’s, uh, floor 15. Just knock, Marinette will let you right in.”

 

“Thanks,” she flashes him a grin, and makes sure to sneak her card onto the desk with some maneuvering to take out her phone. Sometimes even kids catch a whisper of things they’re not supposed to know, and they’re easily played.

 

The elevator, unsurprisingly, smells like sugar.

 

Marinette doesn’t seem very pleased to see her, when she goes into her office, smiling restrainedly and politely saying hello.

 

“Hello,” the designer says, cautious, not knowing where it’s safe to prod and poke, “I assume you’re here for the interview that Alya was supposed to do.”

 

“Yes,” Chloé says, because pretending otherwise is foolish, and correcting her idea that Chloé is a bitch who steals articles from other people just to be  _ mean _ is pointless and a waste of her precious time. “I’m actually supposed to write more of a report on everything you’ve got here. Focused on your latest fall season, of course,” she adds.

 

Marinette pinches the bridge of her nose, her messy but still undeniably beautiful dark hair falling down her shoulders like a shimmering waterfall, “Is this going to take very long? I  _ do _ run a business, after all.”

 

“Well, I want to do a good job,  _ don’t _ I?” Chloé cocks her head, showing her teeth, “Wouldn’t want to rush perfection.”

 

Marinette looks away, fingers tightening on the inked quill she’d been writing with, “Yes. Of course. Will you…” she hesitates, “Are you going to record this?”

 

Chloé nods, taking out her phone and tapping the Recorder app swiftly, putting it on Marinette’s glass desk. The designer is tense, fists clenched, gritting her teeth, and she’s glad.

 

It’s much easier to catch onto a lie if the other person is nervous.

 

She clears her throat and starts asking.

 

…

 

**_Ten years ago_ **

 

Marinette and Adrien are  _ holding hands _ .

 

“Sabrina!” Chloé hisses furiously, swatting at her friend’s arm in alarm and demanding her attention, “ _ Sabrina _ , are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

 

The other girl’s jaw drop, and Chloé feels satisfied that she’s not the only one  _ flipping out _ , “That’s impossible!” she whispers, discreetly looking at both of their classmates, who’re looking at each other dreamily and giggling every few seconds.

 

“This  _ must _ be a joke,” Chloé declares, “There’s no  _ way _ Adrien’s going out with that boring, good-for-nothing chick! She’s not even  _ pretty _ .”

 

Sabrina clucks her tongue, “Boys are stupid.”

 

Is it Chloé or does she sound...dangerously hopeful?

 

No. She’s just imagining things.

 

She spends the entire day watching them like a hawk, narrowing her eyes and twitching every time their arms brush together, or Alya rolls her eyes and tease them, grip on her pencil so tight that she’s afraid she’ll snap it in half. Chloé doesn’t dare go up and make a scene, because...what if it’s  _ not _ a joke?

 

She wouldn’t mind so much if Adrien decided he wanted a Spanish girlfriend, or had a penpal or something, if he was lonely. After all, Chloé can’t cater to his every need. She’s got a  _ life _ . But he’s with that  _ ugly slob _ , who doesn’t even put make-up on, smiling at her and brushing her hair behind her ears and not even bothering to look at her!

 

“Maybe,” Sabrina says, tentative, “Maybe it’s for the best, Chloé.”

 

_ “It’s for the best, ma chérie _ ,”  _ her mother whispered, cupping her face and kissing her cheek, “I have to go, you won’t even notice I’m gone…” _

 

“No, it’s  _ not _ , you idiot!” she snaps at her, furious, and glares, “Why can’t you use your  _ head _ once in a while instead of blurting out whatever gibberish goes through your mind? Ugh, I don’t know why I tolerate you!”

 

She storms out of the library and hides in a toilet cubicle, shaking, her head between her legs, trying to  _ breathe _ , and it’s so fucking  _ hard _ . Her breath comes out in short, stuttering pants, and her skin feels disgusting, like she’s sweating. The stall is so terribly small that her knees touch the door. She can see  _ voulez-vous coucher avec moi? xoxo Fanette _ scrawled in black marker, and some names inside hearts, apart from the usual scratches and crude drawings of penises. There’s a doodle of Ladybug in the toilet. Chloé tries to read some of it,  _ anything _ , to distract herself, but her eyes don’t quite focus.

 

Is Adrien going to leave, like Mama did? Is Adrien bored with her? Why won’t he  _ talk _ to her, why is he so  _ mean _ , why the fuck doesn’t he want anything to do with her? She used to be his whole word! They laughed together and they snickered, hiding their grins behind their hands, and they ran away whenever their dads were ‘being important’ and ‘too busy to deal with you, dear’,  and he never cared that her Mama wasn’t around because his wasn’t, either, and everything was perfect.

 

With a burning passion, she  _ hates _ Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

 

A beautiful, delicate white butterfly sets on her knee.

 

…

 

**_Present_ **

 

Paris is beautiful, at night.

 

To be honest, Paris is beautiful at any time of the day, with the early sunrise making white-grey stone turn pink, the peaceful river starting to wake up, just stretching lazily under the watch of the few unfortunate citizens who have to work that soon. It’s beautiful when the sun hits it at its highest, tourists hurrying to catch a picture while running after their guide, backpacks firmly in place, maps and caps safely held in their hands, the Eiffel Tower shining against the bright light. It’s beautiful at night, when the sweet sound of music can be heard from any dark corner, and all the bakeries smell of chocolate and almond, the tempting scent dancing through the streets and reaching lonely souls looking for somewhere to crash.

 

But Chloé is not  _ lonely _ . And many would argue she hasn’t got a soul.

 

She’s just trying to walk home, steps light and fast, fastening her coat and rubbing her palms together to melt away the minuscule ice particles on her skin, trying to get some exercise in after a day composed of mostly sitting in a quiet office while she asked questions and Marinette answered in a droning monotone, emotionless and still. Chloé had gotten aches in her back just from watching her sit like she had a stick up her pert little ass.

 

And then someone screams.

 

“ _ Akuma! Akuma coming! _ ”

 

Chloé closes her eyes, “Fuck.”

 

And then the explosion hits.

 

…

 

“Fuck - I’m not - I’m not going to leave a fucking message, okay, Sabrina? Just - fuck - call me, okay? And not just to fuck.”

 

_ Message deleted _ .

 

…

 

The sound of steady beeping wakes her up, and Chloé coughs when she regains consciousness. Her throat feels dry and rough, like she hasn’t spoken in  _ years _ .

 

“She’s awake,” someone says, and she still hasn’t opened her eyes, “Miss, er, Mademoiselle Bourgeois is awake.”

 

“Thank you,” a familiar voice says evenly, and her eyes shoot open, because she  _ knows _ who that is, “Chloé has contributed to our city a lot. I couldn’t very well leave her without making sure she was okay.”

 

“ _ Ladybug _ ?” Chloé croaks, bewildered, or, tries to, because she starts coughing again the second she opens her mouth, her chest feeling tight and swollen and  _ wrong _ , “W-what?”

 

One of the nurses looks at her strangely, like she’s said something incredibly offensive, and takes her pulse with a disapproving frown on her face.

 

Ladybug, because  _ Ladybug is in her hospital room _ , looks deeply uncomfortably, hands at her sides, biting her lip. She’s not like the sex goddess who visits Chloé once a week, confident and cocksure and unhesitating, taking everything she wants without mercy and not saying sorry after. She’s...out of place, here.

 

“Are you, uh, is everything alright, Chloé?” she asks, strained, “Chat got you out before Explosif could do much damage.”

 

She snorts, even when it just hurts her throat more, and gratefully accepts the glass of water the nurse offers, “I bet he loved doing that.”

 

Ladybug frowns, “Chat Noir is a  _ superhero _ , Chloé,” she reprimands, like Chloé said a bad word or something, and stands a little closer to her bed, “I have to go.”

 

Unbidden, without really knowing what she’s doing, Chloé hand weakly shoots out, wrapping her fingers around the spandex-covered wrist, gently keeping the superhero in place, “Stay,” she begs, and hopes she looks as pathetic as she feels.

 

The nurse is staring at them.

 

“I can’t, Chloé,” Ladybug says firmly, shooting an uncertain glance at the nurse, and disentangles her wrist from her grip, returning to her confident façade, “I have to go.”

 

And then she’s gone.

 

Chloé’s discharged after a few check-ups and a reminder to always carry her Akuma Panic Button (a waste of time; it’s orange and impossible to wear without looking like a crime to colour-coordinating, so she’s not going to take it out of the plastic box it came in), because the Lucky Charm healed most of the damage that had been done to her, anyway, and she apparently only got a hospital room because Ladybug insisted on it.

 

“She was...very worried, Ladybug,” the nurse tells her, sounding perplexed. She can’t keep her eyes off Chloé’s hand, which touched the superhero gently and pleaded for her to stay. Chloé quickly puts it behind her back, mortified, and hopes she won’t go and tell the press, “She told us to find you a room. So, we did.”

 

Chloé gets a taxi home. 

 

It’s Tuesday afternoon.

 

…

 

Ladybug doesn’t show up.

 

Chloé falls asleep alone, hugging a pillow to her chest and blushing in anger, cursing the stupid girl for making her whiny and needy and  _ weak _ .

 

When she wakes up, her bed smells like sugar.

 

There’s a ladybug on her nightstand.

 

…

 

**_Ten years ago_ **

 

“I love you,” breathes Adrien, looking into deep blue eyes and seeing the sky.

 

“I - I love you too,” Marinette replies, breathless, and wonders why she’s not so sure she means it. She’s wringing her hands together in her lap.

 

And then the bathroom door is blasted open.

 

…

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! Comments and Kudos literally keep this story going :)


	3. i'm the fury, in your bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a moment, she wonders how she and Ladybug would look like, just having a coffee. Would the colours of their hair be so shockingly different if they were sitting next to each other, their shoulders brushing? Would they have a noticeable height difference? Would Ladybug dress up to see her?
> 
> Because Chloé would. She’d get jitters and spend five hours just staring at her wardrobe, terrified of picking something Ladybug wouldn’t like, anxious, would bite her nails and then groan because she’d have to redo them. Chloé would get the most expensive perfume she owns ( _the one her father used to buy every year, for their anniversary. He used to lock the door and leave the carefully wrapped box on his bed, a ribbon neatly tied on the top. After a while, Chloé would knock, and he would mumble something, and then would fall quiet again_ ) and spray it all over herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for keeping up with this, everyone! I hope you like this chapter :) Chapter title from "Spanish Sahara" by Foals, from the Life is Strange soundtrack. SUCH A GREAT FUCKING SONG  
> NOW BETA'D BY THE ABSOLUTELY AMAZING dinosaurfangirl (who's also on Tumblr!) and who, and I quote, "don't ship ladychlo, but your smut nnnngghh" i got yo fam  
> ALSO: TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDAL THOUGHTS  
> BE CAREFUL PLEASE

_ Take me to church _

_ I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies _

_ I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife _

_ Offer me that deathless death _

_ Good God, let me give you my life _

 

_ If I'm a pagan of the good times _

_ My lover's the sunlight _

_ To keep the Goddess on my side _

_ She demands a sacrifice _

 

 _Drain the whole sea_ _2_

_ Get something shiny _

_ Something meaty for the main course _

_ That's a fine-looking high horse _

_ What you got in the stable? _

_ We've a lot of starving faithful _

\- "Take Me To Church", by Hozier

 

…

 

When people get to know that Chloé is rich, when they see her spending money carelessly, when they realize how much her clothes must cost and the amount of cash that’s on her credit card, they think that she doesn’t value it. That she always had it, so wanting,  _ needing _ money isn’t a part of her life. That she doesn’t even know what value and worth mean.

 

They would be wrong.

 

If there’s one thing Chloé’s learnt, growing rich and spoiled, pampered, paraded around like her daddy’s biggest achievement, wearing Agreste silks and designer gold necklaces when she was barely able to comprehend what the word ‘politician’ meant, is that nothing in life comes free.

 

But her coin isn’t money. She doesn’t pay with  _ bills _ for the things in her life.

 

Chloé deals in power.

 

And the price of everything is her dignity.

 

…

 

“Hey. I didn’t really expect you to pick up.” 

 

You used to always answer me almost immediately. It was a little pathetic. I- I miss it. 

 

...Fuck, I’m sorry. Just- I’m deleting this.”

 

_ Message deleted _ .

 

…

 

“Hey,” Marie smiles at her softly, her brown eyes shining with kindness. She’s holding a glossy magazine in her hands, this week’s issue, and she sets it on Chloé’s desk gently, “I read your article, the one with the mayor. I think you did a great job. Honestly,” she laughs a little, brushing a strand of black hair from her eyes, “it almost seems like you know the guy!”

 

_ I know we’ve had our...disagreements - _

 

“Yes,” Chloé gives her a forced smile, one of her specialties, the kind she used to reserve for the ambassadors who used to breathe on her and touch her waist when her daddy turned his head, “Yes, it does, doesn’t it?”

 

Marie cocks her head, looking at her for a second longer, and then just shakes her head and glances at her desk, eyes crinkling, “Well, I should actually get some work done. But, yeah, congrats.”

 

She turns and walks towards her desk, leaving Chloé alone. She waits for a few seconds, biting her lower lip and trying to convince herself not to do it, but then her hands shoot out to grab the magazine, jealously holding it against her chest. She glances around the office to make sure no one’s watching, and carefully flips the pages until she sees the header she wrote herself:  _ Paris’ Most Heroic Mayor Yet. _

 

The ‘yet’ was added when she was bitter and half drunk and listening to sad Lana del Rey songs, so she tries not to feel too bad about it, even though Adrien will probably pick up on it immediately. And then he’ll think that Chloé is still angry, that Chloé can’t stand the sight of him and has used this article to get her petty revenge, and he won’t even bother reading her thought-out words. He won’t read ‘ _ this outstanding man _ ’ or ‘ _ truly an example for our young population; to rise up and follow your dreams, becoming the best person possible _ ’, and he’ll probably complain to Nathalie.

 

Her breath quickens. Her palms are sweaty. Chloé’s eyes flutter shut, and she focuses.  _ You’re okay. Count 1, 2, 3, 4… _

 

She’s okay.

 

Adrien looks beautiful in the picture, of course, sitting on the same cozy armchair that her daddy used to sit on, his flawless blond hair and piercing green eyes looking as warm as ever. His legs are crossed, one knee on top of the other, and he’s wearing a casual suit, no tie, one button undone to show  _ just _ a hint of his collarbones.

 

His PR team is impressive.

 

Chloé remembers the time when Adrien was four and he fell into the Seine, because their nannies weren’t paying attention. She remembers screaming, and screaming, crying as her best friend splashed around frantically, eyes wide and terrified, and she clearly remembers  _ not _ going in after him.

 

She wonders if anything would have changed, if she had. Hopes that Mireille, fake girlfriend or not, would do it without hesitating.

 

…

 

Her phone rings while she’s finishing the transcription of Marinette’s first interview.

 

She wastes no time picking up and, against her better judgement, whispers, “Sabrina?”, letting a bit of hope trickle into her voice, like it’s poison.

 

“No, sorry,” Rose’s flustered, cheerful tone answers her, and she deflates, even though she’s glad it’s Rose and not Adrien. God, what a disaster  _ that _ call was. “It’s Rose. I was just wondering how you’re holding up.”

 

“Um,” Rose is the only person Chloé doesn’t really know how to handle. She’s too old and too  _ Chloé _ to really believe that some people have no ulterior motives, that someone can just...mean well. But somehow, she’s never found a fault with Rose. And that scares her, so much that it’s difficult to control how she feels around her. “I’m fine, thank you. You don’t have to call every week, you know.”

 

_ Please, never stop calling _ .

 

“Oh, well, if it doesn’t bother you, I’ll keep doing it,” Rose sounds sheepish, and Chloé can easily imagine her running a hand through her hair, relaxed and simple. She had a crush on Rose, for a while, after Sabrina left, and even though she knows that she was still pining for Ladybug at the time, she still flushes slightly, “Actually,” Rose sounds a bit uncertain, “Juleka and I are having a coffee around the place you and Alya work. Maybe you’d like to join us?”

 

Chloé hesitates.

 

She usually refuses, finding a flimsy excuse and convincing herself that she doesn’t need Rose’s company, that Rose isn’t  _ really _ her friend, that she’s just being nice. But today is Tuesday, and Ladybug didn’t show up last week. If she isn’t there again tonight, she’s going to need this to force herself to wake up tomorrow.

 

“...Okay,” she murmurs, voice small, hoping no one at work hears her. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Terrence glance at the restrooms, and feels her lips curl against her will, “I’ll be right down. Text me what it’s called.”

 

Marie gives her a thumbs up when she sees Chloé leaving, and she allows herself a small smile, snorting when she sees Terrence enter the toilets and watches the entire Ladybug Team’s shoulders drop.

 

The café is small and almost (dare she say it?) cute, decorated with porcelain flowers, the chairs and tables made of thin metal painted a delightful sky blue. Juleka, with her ebony hair (she’s grown out of the purple highlights, thank god), is sitting in front of Rose in a table in the corner, and they look almost like total opposites. Juleka’s wearing all black, still, like she did in school, one of Marinette’s designs, a suit, and she’s tall, even sitting down, her amber eyes glowing at she looks at her girlfriend. Rose, on the other hand, has shining golden hair that make her seem like  some kind of angel, and her short pink sundress is  _ not _ advised for the creeping fall weather. 

 

For a moment, she wonders how she and Ladybug would look like, just having a coffee. Would the colours of their hair be so shockingly different if they were sitting next to each other, their shoulders brushing? Would they have a noticeable height difference? Would Ladybug dress up to see her?

 

Because Chloé would. She’d get jitters and spend five hours just staring at her wardrobe, terrified of picking something Ladybug wouldn’t like, anxious, would bite her nails and then groan because she’d have to redo them. Chloé would get the most expensive perfume she owns ( _ the one her father used to buy every year, for their anniversary. He used to lock the door and leave the carefully wrapped box on his bed, a ribbon neatly tied on the top. After a while, Chloé would knock, and he would mumble something, and then would fall quiet again _ ) and spray it all over herself.

 

But it’s no use thinking about that, because Ladybug and her aren’t dating. They never will. She isn’t some superhero’s girlfriend, like in Superman or Spiderman, she doesn’t get kissed upside down. She gets to come with her lace panties still hanging halfway down her legs, shaking in the silence of her room, and whisper a name that has no meaning.

 

“Hi, Chloé!” Rose calls out suddenly, snapping her out of her thoughts, and she straightens up, grip on her tiny beige purse tightening, before slowly making her way towards them. Juleka glances up and goes back to staring devotedly at her girlfriend, uninterested.

 

Chloé sits down.

 

“Hello, Rose,” she says, stiff and not sure how to act. Rose is difficult. “How are you doing?”

 

Rose beams at her, twirling her hair with one of her fingers, her other hand gripping Juleka’s over the table, “It’s been great, thank you! It’s just  _ amazing _ to see you, Chloé! I don’t think we’ve hang out since what, June?”

 

“Yes,” Chloé answers, after a beat, “I would say that.”

 

June was Pride Parade. Pride is the only thing she allows herself; every year, for a day, she stops feeling guilty and  _ wrong _ and used, and just goes out and have fun. It used to work better before Ladybug and her started their...arrangement, but it’s still one of the highlights of her year, just enjoying the world around her. She likes to dress in a tank top and a skirt, to cover herself in glitter and laugh as girl after girl spins her around, winks at her and unsubtly gives her the bedroom eyes. 

 

She never goes home with any of them.

 

She tried, once, when Ladybug had shouted at her the week before and left her sobbing on her shower, clutching the curtain and screaming when it fell under the pressure of her weight. But the minute the other girl kissed her (her eyes were  _ blue _ , but not the  _ right kind _ , never the shade she’s looking for) she recoiled and ran to throw up over the balcony.

 

So she doesn’t try, anymore.

 

“Yes. June was...fun,” she allows herself a smile. She’s never really come out to anyone, but Rose would be the closest thing. Chloé can’t deny it made her cry, a little.

 

“Oh, we should really meet up again!” Rose sighs, like she can’t believe they haven’t done it yet, “Juleka is always complaining about how you’re never around.”

 

Juleka gives her a look that directly translates to “if you believe a word she’s saying, you’re an idiot”, and Chloé’s lips curl, despite herself. Juleka isn’t nice, like Rose is, and she’s not her  _ friend _ , in any sense of the word, but she’s never judged Chloé personally. She just doesn’t really like people. Chloé can appreciate that in a smart girl like Juleka.

 

“I’m sure,” she allows herself to say, and averts her eyes when Juleka glares, “Work is just a bit bad now, after the summer.”

 

“Juleka’s always saying that, too,” Rose complains, cocking her head and pouting at her girlfriend, making the other girl roll her eyes but push their chairs closer together. Chloé would bet their thighs are touching. “You should really take time to just relax, Chloé! Everyone needs some.”

 

“Yes,” she murmurs, and gestures at the waitress to come take her order, “You’re absolutely right.”

 

…

 

It’s seven. 

 

A tap outside her window.

 

“You can just open it,” Chloé mutters, feeling embarrassed, just standing in her living room like an idiot, arms wrapped around herself. 

 

She’s nervous.

 

“I was trying to be polite,” Ladybug offers, sliding in through her window, a shower of red in the dark Paris sky, all curves and graceful, practiced movements.

 

Chloé frowns. Ladybug sounds  _ weird _ , like she’s got a sore throat or something. She looks at her in suspicion, forgetting her jitters, “Did you catch a cold or something?”

 

The superhero startles, in her living room, blue eyes wide, and she looks away, almost like she’s feeling awkward. “N-no, I haven’t.”

 

“Then what’s wrong with your voice?”

 

Ladybug sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose, like she’s already tired of being in Chloé presence, and she wants to  _ go back go back go back I’m sorry _ .

 

“Nothing; there’s nothing wrong with it,” she sounds normal again, like the voice Chloé cherishes every time it chooses to say her name. 

 

They both stay quiet for a few minutes, standing there, like teenagers, until Ladybug clears her throat and asks, quietly, “Are you okay? From the hospital, I mean.”

 

“Yeah, thanks for checking in,” Chloé bristles, turning away to avoid letting her see the way her concern makes her heart twist in her chest.

 

A sight. “Chloé, I can’t be your keeper.”

 

_ But you came _ , Chloé wants to say, because she remembers the sugar in her bed, the ladybug on her nightstand. She doesn’t, because Ladybug sneaked in, deliberately avoiding her, and that  _ hurts _ .

 

“Yeah, well, can’t fuck me if I can’t stand, can’t you?” Chloé snaps, trying to control her trembling body, and the way it  _ aches _ for Ladybug. She can’t help it, she really can’t.

 

“Chloé!” Ladybug sounds pissed, now, “I worry about every citizen!”

 

“Do you also have  _ sex _ with every citizen?” she assumes a dramatic pose, like she’s flabbergasted, turning to look at her, “Oh, my, is  _ that _ how you get so much publicity? Who could’ve guessed?!”

 

Her voice rises at the end, spitting out the words, hands shaping into fists. She lowers it, until it’s almost a growl, “Is that it?”

 

“Fuck you, Chloé,” Ladybug swears, eyes shining with anger, and takes two steps, until she’s all up in her face, mere centimeters away from her face, the head radiating from her body warming Chloé up, making it  _ real _ , “ _ Fuck  _ you.”

 

Ladybug’s arm swiftly wraps around her waist, pulling her closer, and Chloé gasps,  _ falls _ , stumbling, her arms up to grab hold of Ladybug’s shoulders, clumsily supporting herself. The superheroine’s eyes are dark with something much more dangerous than anger, and her lips are red.

 

“I don’t,” squeeze on her waist, “know,” a burning, too-much-too-soon kiss on the base of her neck, licking and almost brushing it with her teeth, “what the fuck,” a knee opening up her legs, not asking for permission, “I’m doing with you,” Ladybug breathes, and her hands reach up to caress Chloé cheek softly. Her eyes flutter shut.

 

“Don’t stop,” she chokes out, “Don’t leave me. Please.”

 

Ladybug picks her up easily, bridal-style, and Chloé giggles a bit at the absurdity of the situation, clutching at the superhero in order not to fall. She carries Chloé to her bedroom, opening the door with a kick, rough and  desperate, and lays her on the bed, gently, like she’s fragile.  Slowly, with care, she unbuttons her blouse, and Chloé can feel every small, desperate pant that slides from Ladybug’s slightly parted lips.

 

“Don’t worry,” Chloé whispers, wondering if maybe having a glass of whisky was a mistake, “I won’t break.”

 

Ladybug’s knees end up on either side of her thighs, and her spandex-covered arms lift her head up and put a pillow below it, nuzzling her neck while she does it, making Chloé let out a small, breathy sound.

 

_ You can’t break what’s already broken _ .

 

…

 

“Sabrina… remember when we used to watch that show on Saturdays? It was awful,  of course, and I never enjoyed it...but it wasn’t as terrible, when you were there. I d-don’t -”

 

_ Message deleted _ .

 

…

 

Chloé wakes up with her entire bedroom smelling of sugar, and sights.

 

She’s working a little later today, so she takes her time getting ready, showering, rinsing every trace of Ladybug’s touch, cleansing herself. It’s something she does, because if Ladybug’s scent lingered, if she could still remember the feel of spandex against skin, then she’d never be able to concentrate on anything.

 

And then she goes to work.

 

She’s munching on a cookie as she works, looking at her laptop screen, typing furiously. Chloé’s never been a great hacker, because computer code goes over her head, and Sabrina usually took care of that, when she was still around, but now she pays one of her old classmates, Max, to do it. 

 

She’s got an email from him that morning, the subject matter blank, and she clicks on it, glancing at the small clock on the corner of her screen. God, she needs a lunch break.

 

It just says:  _ I’m not hacking Marinette’s servers, Chloé _ .

 

Well. It was to be expected. She doesn’t really command enough (or any) loyalty to be obeyed like that, and Max  _ was _ friends with Dupain-Cheng. He won’t tell her, of course, because Max  never compromises his clients, but it’s still a problem. She bites her lower lip, annoyed at the fact that she’s going to have to get someone else to do it, wasting precious time.

 

And the worst thing is, she knows just  _ who _ is the best person for the job.

 

Lila agrees to meet immediately. Probably because the last time Chloé wanted something, it was to give her the latest computer model that she’d found in her old contact’s company. Chloé may not be the nicest, but networking is her strongsuit, and Lila Rossi is a diplomat’s daughter, so she knows how to play the game.

 

“What do you need, sweetheart?” Lila sprawls out on the lounge chair she’s on, her gorgeous copper hair falling all over the place. It’s so  _ long _ . “And I’m not averse to sexual favours.”

 

Chloé rolls her eyes, “Lila, I might be gay and desperately, desperately single, but even  _ I _ know better than to get into bed with you. What was it that happened to the last one? Stitches?”

 

“Fractured ribs,” Lila corrects with a smirk, “Honestly, he should have just used his safeword.” She looks Chloé up and down, intrigued, and cocks her head, “But we’re not here to talk about my amazing and fulfilling sex life, are we?”

 

“Unfortunately, no,” Chloé cracks a smile, because Lila is probably the only person who understands how her mind  _ works _ , and it’s overwhelmingly refreshing. “I need your help; and your discretion, of course.”

 

“Of course,” Lila echoes, amused.

 

“I’m doing an issue on  _ Sugar _ , the brand, and I really wouldn’t want to get involved in any scandal.”

 

“That would not be advisable,” she agrees, eyes shining.

 

“I’d really appreciate it if you would make sure there wasn’t something...wrong...with  _ Sugar _ .” 

 

Lila’s lips curl, “Girl, you’re such a sweet talker. Of course I’ll do it. I don’t know why you always go to that shortstuffs to get your dirt.”

 

“Because  _ he _ doesn’t take five weeks to get me info, when you’re ‘not in the mood’, Lila.” Chloé raises an eyebrow, and the Italian girl waves it off, “And because his husband is hilarious.”

 

“Hmm-hmmm,” she hums, but then she smiles, softening a bit, and her eyes look kind, “How are you holding up, honey?”

 

Chloé swallows, “I’m doing fine, Lila. Don’t worry about me.”

 

“I always worry,” her friend says, and it makes her stomach clench, because god, she is so  _ pathetic _ to crave those words, “You’re sadder than My Heart Will Go On AMVs, baby. And you’re too clever for your own good.”

 

“Really, Lila, I wouldn’t lie to you.”

 

“Oh?” Lila smirks, sipping at her wine lazily, “You wouldn’t, Miss Desperately Single? Because that on your neck is a hickey if I’ve ever seen one.”

 

…

 

**_Ten years ago_ **

 

Breathe in, breathe out.

 

Eyes squeezed shut, grip on the small plastic bottle shaking. Beads of sweat sliding down her forehead, almost like they’re baptizing her. The urge to laugh.

 

God, she’s not holy at all.

 

Painfully white porcelain. Too bright lights. It hurts to think. It hurts it hurts it hurtsithurtsithurts.

 

A pulsing pain in her head. Her knees are trembling. Hands gripping the edge of the sink, sweaty and almost slipping off. A tighter hold on it, like it’s a lifeline.

 

Huh. A lifeline.

 

The small sound of the bottle’s cap popping open, the rattle of the pills inside it. 

 

A desire to just not  _ be _ .

 

Funeral clothes.

 

Oh god, please let me die.

 

Let me atone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it! I'm a mess.


	4. the broken pieces of me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well,” she smiles, the kind of smile that screams, Run and maybe you can try to hide, “Let’s start by getting to know each other better, shall we? Readers love getting a feel of someone’s personality, you know.”
> 
>  
> 
> “We know each other well enough, Chloé,” Marinette says, sounding a bit strained, “I think we can skip the formalities.”
> 
>  
> 
> “I wasn’t aware of the fact that you were letting me go freestyle on whatever I wanted to tell our readers, Marinette,” she comments, leaning back in her chair, “That gives me quite the freedom, you know. You might want to keep things on and off record.”
> 
>  
> 
> Marinette stiffens at that, her fingers wrapping around her armchair in a way that looks painful. Bingo. “Yes. I want to do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW GUYS  
> SORRY FOR THE LONG WAIT  
> Im currently Yuri!!! On Ice trash. You should all give the anime a shot, it's great! More updates will be coming soon (bc NaNo duh)  
> Chapter title from "Glassy Skies" from the Tokyo Ghoul soundtrack.

__And I want a moment to be real,  
Wanna touch things I don't feel,  
Wanna hold on and feel I belong.  
And how can the world want me to change?  
They’re the ones that stay the same.  
They don’t know me,  
'Cause I’m not here.

\- "I'm Still Here", Johnny Rzeznik.

* * *

Chloé’s earliest memory is Mama tucking her into bed after a day of playing in the living room and dressing up as different Disney Princes, as she liked to do before her dad had sat her down and had a talk with her about “not appropriate, sweetie”, and then she’d switched to princesses, even though it was harder to run around the mansion with them. Chloé doesn’t really remember anything special about that day, not what she ate, or what she said, or even if she had fun, but she can remember Mama’s blue eyes staring at her in the tender light of the Parisian twilight, drifting in through the small window, with a child lock, of course. She remembers Mother pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, smoothing her curls out of the way.

 

After Mama left, dad started coming in to tuck her in, but she’d refuse to let him touch her in her tiny childhood bed, curling up on her side and covering herself up to her nose with the blankets, breathing harshly under the sheets. Her dad would wait thirty seconds, to see if she’d move, and then he would just sigh, sitting on the bed, his expensive shoes making small noises against the wooden floor, and pat the area near her feet, before saying, tired and frustrated, “Goodnight, Chloé.”

 

…

 

On Friday, Chloé gets to work, waves quickly at Marie and the crew, teases Terrence about using the toilet at home (“I swear to god, like, I’m so sick of these jokes! It’s just a coincidence!” “I bet you’re Hawkmoth!” “Zach, I will  _ kill _ you.”) and grabs her stuff, making sure her make-up is perfect before walking back out again.

 

She’s interviewing Dupain-Cheng again, and Lila is  _ late _ .

 

She’d promised Chloé everything she needed for last night, but, as usual, her friend had probably been up all night doing some code of hers for the company she runs, sipping her trademark latte and not even bothering to think about Chloé. So now she’s got to go face-to-face with Marinette Dupain-Cheng, former school rival and current thorn in her side (her own Draco Malfoy. Or would  _ she  _ be Draco? Chloé seriously doubts anyone could think of her as The Chosen One while the sugarfairy is in the picture), without any info to use as leverage. Fuck, she’d sleep with her if it worked, even though Marinette is possibly the straightest girl she’s ever met.

 

When she thinks about sex, her hands automatically go up to touch her neck, where the hickey Ladybug left has almost completely faded, and she shivers, pulling her black jacket tighter and hoping she isn’t blushing. God, Tuesday had been  _ fucking insane _ . She’s never seen Ladybug like that, so close to losing control, so wild and all over the place, hands twitching and legs trembling against hers, fingers spasming as she traced invisible lines all over her skin…

 

Now she’s  _ definitely _ blushing. Thank god she doesn’t have a penis.

 

The bus ride (because Chloé’s been reduced to taking  _ buses _ , unbelievable) to the  _ Sugar  _ building is only twenty minutes long, which makes it bearable, even if she  _ does _ have the urge to rip out the eyes of the old man who’s been staring at her ass for the entire ride. There’s a group of English students laughing loudly and looking out the windows, eyes wide, voice bubbling up with excitement. Some of the teenagers are holding hands, and girls are leaning into each other, playing with their friends’ hair or just resting against them, looking tired but ready to go.

 

Chloé closes her eyes, just for a second. She can’t… She shouldn’t make herself see this. She’s fine. She  _ is _ . She doesn’t...miss her.

 

Because Chloé isn’t  _ pathetic _ . She wouldn’t sit around for three years waiting for someone who’s never coming back. She’s better than that. She doesn’t  _ need _ ...her.

 

Fuck.

 

The bus clatters to a stop, and she flashes a quick smile and a, “Excusez-moi,” at the middle aged woman in her way before walking out, feeling drowsy and tired.

 

The same receptionist from her first visit is manning the desk, still playing on his phone (what staff did she expect from Miss Awards for Participating?), and she takes the time to walk up to him and quickly scan his I.D.: Hector. She clears her throat softly, plastering on her smile, and the boy looks up a little, almost jumping in his seat when he sees who it is, cheeks flushed.

 

“Ma-mademoiselle Bourgeois,” he splutters, and  _ bingo _ , he remembers her name, “D-désolé.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” she cocks her head, “Hector, is it?”

 

His face reddens, and he ducks his head, scratching the back of his neck and glancing nervously around, as if he’s worried someone will see him flirting with a girl and sack him. Well, if they haven’t thrown him out for completely neglecting his duties, Chloé thinks he’s safe.

 

“Y-yes, um. Yeah, that’s me.”

 

“Great,” she beams at him, “I have an appointment with Mademoiselle Marinette Dupain-Cheng again.” She pauses, letting Hector look down at his files to see if she’s supposed to be here, and, when he’s distracted, says, “And it’s good to see you.”

 

His ears go red. 

 

“I left you my card,” she continues, trying not to shudder at the completely unoriginal flirting. She’s got some  _ class _ . She’d never pull these lines on  _ Ladybug _ . But ‘Hector’ wants this. “If you ever need anything...well, I’m always available.”

 

Hector swallows when he looks up, and says, “Yeah. Of course. I’ll, uh, I’ll call if I need you. Mademoiselle Dupain-Cheng is expecting you.”

 

“Thanks, Hector.”

 

Sometimes it’s just  _ too _ easy.

…

 

Marinette’s office is still as disgustingly homey as it was the first time around, unfortunately. She’s got pictures of her friends and family on her desk, all of them grinning at the camera, and the furniture is barely acceptable for someone who’s in charge of a million-euro worth brand, but it reeks of IKEA, of shopping with her parents, maybe, choosing things that reminded her of her own place.

 

“Chloé,” Marinette greets her awkwardly when she sees her come in, “Please, sit down.”

 

She does, taking care not to wrinkle her skirt, and crosses her legs. “I’ll be recording this session, too, if that’s not an issue for you.”

 

“...of course not,” Marinette lies through her teeth, looking as comfortable with Chloé recording as if she were about to be eaten by wild tigers. “Whatever you need.”

 

“Thank you, Marinette.”

 

She takes out her notebook and her recorder, making sure that everything is ready, and presses on. Chloé looks up to meet the fashion designer’s eyes, unsure of exactly what approach she wants to try with her. She’s already ruled out sex and bribery, for obvious reasons, but she’s still debating whether to go for friendly or threatening, sympathetic or aggressive. Chloé’s heard wonders about Marinette’s kindness, has already gotten tired of listening to Rose praising her for her selflessness and easy smile, though she doubts that will apply to her, judging by the way Marinette can barely bring herself to be icily polite.

 

“Well,” she smiles, the kind of smile that screams,  _ Run and maybe you can try to hide _ , “Let’s start by getting to know each other better, shall we? Readers love getting a feel of someone’s personality, you know.”

 

“We know each other well enough, Chloé,”  Marinette says, sounding a bit strained, “I think we can skip the formalities.”

 

“I wasn’t aware of the fact that you were letting me go freestyle on whatever I wanted to tell our readers, Marinette,” she comments, leaning back in her chair, “That gives me quite the freedom, you know. You might want to keep things on and off record.”

 

Marinette stiffens at that, her fingers wrapping around her armchair in a way that looks painful.  Bingo. “Yes. I want to do that.”

 

“Oh, come on, Mari,” she taunts, winking, “Have you never been interviewed before? I assure you, it’s quite fun once you let yourself relax.”

 

She looks at Chloé at that, and it startles her, because Marinette’s gaze is strangely intense. Her eyes are celestial blue, shimmering, and her lips are pressed into a thin white line, almost as if she’s restraining herself. Marinette seems to belong to an entirely different world now, even though Chloé can see a trace of the school girl who laughed freely and carried a cute purse around everywhere. There’s something simply  _ off _ about the way she acts, a secret she’s hiding that makes her appear like a merge of several variations on the same piece, out of tune in certain places where she shouldn’t be. 

 

“I  _ am _ relaxed, Chloé,” Marinette tells her, firm, “Just begin with the questions?”

 

It takes her a few seconds to react to that, still slightly lost from feeling that she’s nowhere near the degree of control that she thought she had in this interview. But she’s Chloé Bourgeois, so she smiles, showing her teeth, and asks, “Was fashion your dream as you were growing up?” even as she already knows the answer.

 

It almost reminds her of a dance of death, two opponents facing each other on even ground, circling each other and eyeing the rival warily, readying themselves for a fight that doesn’t leave any visible wounds. Somehow, Chloé gets the feeling that she’s losing, and there’s nothing she can do to stop it.

 

…

 

Lila sends her an email while she’s writing up today’s info for her issue. It only reads:  _ clean _ , so Chloé sighs and rubs her temples softly, trying to fight the exhausting, combined with the overwhelming urge to throw herself into bed to sleep away the pain and jitters.

 

She’s debating whether it’s better or not to actually give in when she her phone vibrates, startling her. Chloé checks her messages. There’s an unknown number who’s texted her, and the message makes her groan and lay her head on the desk, refusing to even acknowledge it. It’s that receptionist guy, apparently, Hector. He’s actually quite endearing, saying things like ‘ _ i hope i havent read this wrong haha _ ’ or ‘ _ you seem so interesting _ ’ when Chloé is a hundred per cent sure the only organ that’s thinking in his body at the moment is his dick.

 

Chloé only really approached him because of the potential gossip and rumours, but she doubts he’s truly up to date with everything going on at the main offices, with that habit of his to play with his phone all day. Still, it doesn’t hurt to go check it out.

 

She sighs, closes her laptop, and resolves to find the tiniest outfit in her wardrobe. Sleeping with a guy is always a pain, even if she’s mostly immune to it by now, but she knows what they like, especially younger guys with a short attention span. 

 

Chloé wonders, sometimes, how she can sleep with anyone for her job, regardless of gender, age or personality, and not feel guilty, despite the way her skin itches for days after it, but broke down at the thought of having sex with a girl on Pride parade. If…  _ she _ were here, she’d probably make a comment about Chloé’s emotional distance from anything regarding her job.

 

She tightens her grip on her hangers. But  _ she _ is not here, so Chloé gets to stay in denial for as long as she want without anyone calling her out on it.

 

Once she’s dressed in a black dress that barely reaches her mid-thigh, Chloé calls Geraint.

 

He picks up immediately, like he always does, “Miss Bourgeois? Is there something wrong?”

 

“I…” she closes her eyes. It always hurts her, making Geraint do this. Geraint watched her grow up, unassuming but quietly supportive, smiling at her with undeniable fondness and giving her gentle pushes. Geraint was the one who found her with the first girl she invited over, who gave her careful pats on the back while she sobbed her eyes out and didn’t say anything when she clutched at him desperately, terrified. “I need a ride, if you don’t mind.”

 

Because if she takes the bus after what she’s going to do, she’ll vomit, no doubt about it.

 

“...Of course,” Geraint answers stiffly. This isn’t the first time she’s asked, but she always hope it’ll be the last. “Where to, Miss Bourgeois?”

 

She tried to get him to call her ‘Chloé’, once. He refused, politely but firmly, and she’s never tried again. Chloé isn’t a fan of masochism.

 

She gives him the address, subdued, and it’s less than five minutes before he rings the bell, making her sigh. She’s always known that Geraint lives somewhere close to her, and that he likes to keep an eye on her, that he worries, in his own way, but it still feels remarkably like a failure when she has to have her old butler taking care of her. It’s been a while since Chloé was a child.

 

In fact, it makes her cringe, slightly, when she remembers how Geraint used to dress as a supervillain so that both her and...Sabrina could play at being Chat and Ladybug, chasing them around the corridors in town hall, pretending to be defeated when Chloé threw her toy Lucky Charm at him. If only she’d known what she’d be up to with Ladybug in the future.

 

Geraint is waiting for her downstairs, wearing his usual black suit and holding his hands behind his back, like he’s still her employee. He nods at her the moment she comes out the door, “Miss Bourgeois.”

 

“Hey, Geraint,” she murmurs, wrapping the warm jacket she grabbed tightly around her shoulders and trying not to shiver, “Long time, no see.”

 

He nods again, diligent, but his eyes soften slightly when he sees what she’s wearing, his jaw clenching, “Are you alright, Miss Bourgeois? Are you certain you wouldn’t prefer I take you..somewhere else?”

 

For a moment, she almost considers saying  _ yes _ . She pictures herself getting into the car with Geraint, making him drive her to a cozy café that’s open at this time of night, maybe getting another jacket at a store they’d pass, and spending the night speaking with him, brushing up on old conversation topics, letting Geraint talk about his wife, which he rarely does but who he loves so intensely that it hurts her, sometimes, just having a quiet evening with one of the few people she considers a friend.

 

But she shakes her head, “I’m fine, thank you. Just take me to that address, s’il te plaît.”

 

He does, although he squeezes her shoulder lightly when she walks past him to get into the car, sending a silent message,  _ I’m here _ .

 

…

 

Hector is nervous as fuck, and he’s one of the most inexperienced guys Chloé’s ever had sex with. Which is saying a lot, because she got fucked by virgins.

 

“Hey,” he squeaks as he opens the door and sees her, cheeks red, “H-hi, Chloé. I-is it alright if I call you Chloé?”

 

“Well,” Chloé murmurs, taking a step forward, until she’s only just short of touching Hector’s body with her own, mindful of his erection. Damn. “It’d be a bad sign for tonight if you didn’t call my name.”

 

Hector’s whole body shudders at that, his hands automatically coming up to wrap around Chloé’s waist, skin hot against hers, breath coming out in pants already, “O-okay, Chloé.”

 

It’s going to be short one, she can already tell. Thank fuck.

 

…

 

It’s after the deed, when Hector’s lying on the bed, pliant and loose-limbed, sheets wrapped lazily around their legs, that Chloé attacks.

 

“Hmmm…” she murmurs, pressing a kiss against his collarbone and trying not to make a face at how disgusting she feels, “I’m glad I went to that interview. This was  _ fun _ .”

 

“Y-yeah?” Hector breathes huskily, shivering at her touch, “I mean, um, I’m really glad, too, Chloé. It was amazing.”

 

_ Yeah, cause  _ you _ got to come, asshole _ .

 

“Yeah, Hector,” she whispers against his skin, “Do you stay there, sitting behind that desk, and think of me? My, my, are you even paying attention to your actual job?”

 

“I- I  _ do _ ,” Hector whines, burying his head in the pillows and breathing out raspily, “Don’t make fun of me, Chloé.”

 

“I’m not, baby,” she soothes him, brushing her fingers against his scalp, “I doubt there’s anything interesting happening in that office, anyway. Figured you’d be picturing  _ real _ entertainment.”

 

“Well, y-yeah,” Hector blushes, “It  _ is _ pretty boring. But I can’t complain; Marinette hired me even though my credentials weren’t the best.”

 

“Ooooh,” she teases, finally getting to what she wants, “Has someone got a crush on their boss?”

 

“No!” Hector’s blush deepens, and he turns away from her slightly, grumbling, “Anyway, I doubt I’d have a chance. I’m pretty sure she’s banging the Mayor.”

 

For a moment, Chloé’s whole world freezes.

 

She remembers Adrien’s voice through the telephone, cold and aiming to hurt the most, piercing layers upon layers of a steel cage around her heart, “ “ _ I love her, how c- there’s no point arguing with you about this.How can you teach a person like you about love, when all you do is hurt people?” _

 

And then she remembers Geraint’s warmth seeping through his gloves and onto her skin, the feeling of Rose’s smile after Chloé makes one of her rare, dry jokes, and she can breathe again, however strained it sounds.

 

“Oh,” Chloé says, sounding stupid, “ _ That _ ’s unexpected.”

 

…

 

**_Ten years ago_ **

 

The explosion knocks Marinette off her feet, sending her flying until she hits the exterior walls of the school with her back, and she groans in pain, flinching. She’s had worse, as Ladybug, but there’s no protective suit or Tikki in her head to reassure her that she’s going to be fine.

 

Wait. Marinette’s eyes widen. Adrien! Where the hell is Adrien?

 

She slides down the walls slowly, letting out a soft moan, and weakly tries to stand up. Tikki’s moving around like crazy in her purse, trying desperately to get out, but Marinette can’t let her. There’s people everywhere in the area; other students that are also trying to get back on their feet, swaying and supported themselves on trees or benches, and teachers shouting at everyone to stay calm.

 

Marinette turns, curling her fingers into a fist, determined to find her boyfriend. They’d been holding hands just right before the explosion set off, so he  _ has _ to be here somewhere, and Marinette’s not about to let Adrien go right now, when he’s probably concussed and confused. She just hopes Plagg can wake him up.

 

Marinette’s taken a step towards the fountain, where she thinks she can see someone lying on the ground, when an arm wraps around her waist, pulling her towards whoever grabbed her.

 

“You’re not going anywhere, girl,” a familiar voice tells her, honey sweet and slightly deeper than it usually is. Marinette’s eyes widen.  _ Chloé _ ? What did she  _ do _ this time? “Not until you give me back what’s  _ mine _ , thief.”

 

She purses her lips. Marinette considers letting Tikki out for the entirety of ten seconds, before she realizes it’s not worth it. She can deal with Chloé on her own, Ladybug or not. She’s not about to let a stupid spoiled rich girl talk down to her, not when she’s a  _ superhero _ , with or without a suit.

 

“Bring it on, Chloé,” she says through gritted teeth, “God knows I don’t like you.”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! I'm dead!

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and Comments give me life! Currently I'm in exam season, so this story is going to depend on how up for it I'm feeling. That's what feedback is for :3


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